The Resurrectionist
by WizardsOfHogwarts
Summary: He greatly despised him. The damn mortician violated the laws of Death itself with his twisted thoughts alone. How far can Grell be pushed before he finds himself beyond the realm of sanity? Spin-off of post-Ship Voyage Arc
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji

He greatly despised him. The damn mortician violated the laws of Death itself with his twisted thoughts alone. How far can Grell be pushed before he finds himself beyond the realm of sanity?

Warnings: Highly graphic scenes, psychological torture, sexual situations

A/N: I will admit, this may be the most twisted story I may possibly write. I warn you, reader, to read with caution as this is not a tale for the lighthearted. I wish to comply to this site's standards (and my own morals), this will be slightly censored from _certain material_; for the most part, this is heavily uncensored on its own.

This story follows after the Campania/Ship Voyage arc.

There will be slight OOC but I will use my interpretation of the manga. Enjoy this.

**REWRITE**: I am aware I wrote this story earlier, but I want to do something else with this. I have decided to rewrite the entire thing to stay within my story line, ha ha.

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_"I can tamper with the Records, but I can't create a soul."_  
-Undertaker-

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His eyes saw the surface of the ocean. His arms and legs propelled him even faster, the completion of his collection encouraged him to rapidly ascend from the depths. Ronald could barely stand the radiating sting of his abdomen, the salinity was only making it worse.

At long last, he broke through the surface, both hands flailing in the air until another caught one of them and aided him into the small rowboat. His body, weighed heavily down by his soaking wet clothes, prevented him from clambering on board without some sort of assistance. Slowly, with eyes adjusting to the moonlight, he saw Grell hauling him in.

Their struggle lasted for a few seconds, he landed on the floor with a heavy thud on his back, Grell himself fell back into sitting at the edge.

"That man...I swear, such a sadist...he comes in to fetch us out of the water and then throws us in," Grell huffed out in frustration.

Ronald reached into his coat pocket for a silver case of cigarettes out of practiced habit. He snapped the small box open for a cigarette, then offered one to Grell. The redhead refused and the cigarettes were stowed away for the favor of a lighter. Ronald bit at the butt and tried to light the other end, but suddenly realized that the flicker was soaked unable to produce a spark. "Too bad we can't file in for abuse."

He tossed the lighter into the water but continued to nibble at the stick. His hand went to his torso, he checked it to still see blood coming from the wound, he winced from the pain.

"Grell-senpai..."

"Dear...don't touch it, our bodies can't regenerate properly when we've been cut by a death scythe." Grell looked down at his own wound. "We're lucky he didn't decide to gut us out." He then reached out to Ronald's face, he turned his chin left and right, scrutinizing his bruised features with a clicking tongue. "And the demon, always going for the face, I'm starting to think he hates me..."

He laughed under his breath. In turn, a little steam came from his lips into the icy air. He looked up at the stars above them, both in need of medical attention. He loathed that William simply left them without even waiting to see them off or return to their realm.

Ronald's breathing was become less and less, the boy was drifting in and out of consciousness. Grell let out a deep sigh and laboriously reached out with both hands to gather Ronald into his arms. He held him close to his chest and proceeded to Transition himself between the realm of the living and the realm of reapers.

-...-

White sheets were all that he could see for the passed three days after turning in his hastily written reflection the morning of returning home.

A nurse, a pretty young woman with golden locks ending in small ringlets down the front, came by to check on him. Grell propped himself up on his shoulders when she neared him two beds away. He wore the standard hospital gown and had an ivy piercing into his wrist, his hair was brushed and tied back for neatness. Out of a bit of rebellion, he undid the tie and let his hair flow freely, much to the nurse's displeasure.

The gaping wound on his stomach had slowly mended itself under the bandages. Shinigami were durable creatures but needed time to rest at a time of weakness. He breathed deeply and was glad to feel no pain. He reached out for his glasses and slipped them on to see his world.

"You've been released from our care," she informed him. She had a bundle of clothes in her arms, along with his favorite red coat; they were placed on the chair at his bedside. They were now clean.

"Oh, thank you," he replied, voice a bit raw from not speaking for a bit. The nurse went to his side as he removed the covers and brought his legs up and over the edge of the bed. She had been attending him for the duration and was a bit of a silent person, she kept to herself and she looked as though she had little empathy towards her patients.

She was young looking, but she had been at this job for centuries with other workers, he wouldn't blame her for her eventual stoicism. She was just like everyone else, it bored him to death being unable to talk. He lifted up his arms for her to pull the dress over his head.

He had a chance to see the bandages still wrapped around his midsection, he still wore red undergarments; he was glad he was allowed to keep those.

"You will remove these tomorrow," she instructed when she handed him a dress shirt. He brought his arms through each sleeve as she impatiently held out a pair of slacks to him.

"I will," he replied,"but where's Ronnie?"

"Mr. Knox is in the other infirmary. He still needs his time to rest his body as he's younger. It won't be for another two days until he can even get up at all," she explained.

As he had gotten out of bed to place on those slacks, the double doors at the end of the room swung opened. Grell's eyes shot to them to see William stride in.

Grell's heart leaped at the sight of him and he was ready to bound over to the man, just for laughs, but the nurse held him back by taking a firm grasp on his shoulder and keeping him in place.

"If you move too much, the bandages will undo themselves and the healing process can't complete itself," she chided him. She walked over to William and the two exchanged a few hush words, Grell folded his arms and sat himself back on the bed with a slight frown. The nurse glanced over at Grell a few times before walking off for the double doors.

Grell was alone with William.

The man stood there for a moment, Grell let a seductive and playful smile slide onto his lips. "Well, I'm in bed half dressed, Will~."

"I can obviously see that. Please button your shirt and make yourself more presentable," William said in turn, unamused. Grell pouted and began to do as he was told. While doing so, William produced a black, leather folder. His death scythe took a hold of it with the jagged, dull teeth and extended itself to Grell. "Direct orders from the Main Branch are to be delivered to you."

Grell's fingers finished up buttoning the last of his buttons. He reached out for it with dainty hands and opened the file. His eyes scanned the first document, it was a failure notice to capture the violator; it wasn't a penalization but it was alarming that the superiors above William were critical in capturing the "violator". He turned the page and found his assignment to be decreed from the Higher Council of the London Division.

His eyes were wide at the specifications of the mission.

"...Will, this is an order to hunt the violator down," Grell stated flatly, going through papers in awe. He knew little of where to start if he would search for Undertaker, but his largest confusion would be that the Main Branch had decided to give him a task meant for the much more higher ranking workers.

"Yes, they are indeed. It was issued after you turned in your reflections. This is a way to redeem yourself and prove that you're worthy of rising back into being an Officer, and as a result if you succeed, they will also blot out your other...records of other misdemeanors, especially that of Jack the Ripper. This is your chance to clean yourself up, should you choose to fail this mission they will simply strip you of your godhood-"

Grell dropped the folder to the ground. "Strip me of my godhood!? For what!?" He practically yelled. "How were we supposed to know a Deserter was involved in all this!? I came back here with my gut barely torn open and you expect me to bring him back alive!?"

"The fact that you and Mr. Knox were unsuccessful in retrieving the violator shows your incompetence to hold your ground against foes. And with the repeated defeat from that accursed butler, surely you have only proven yourself to be weak as well. Take this task as a test to show that you are indeed strong to continue being one of our kind. You're not different than a human in combat, as it seems."

William began to turn away. Grell felt rage suddenly boil up inside, he had to release quickly. He sprung down from the bed and lunged at William, but he froze when the man presented the tip of the sharp end of the shears. He knew how deadly the man was with his weapon.

"I always thought of you as weak myself, and not just academically," he commented with a slight sneer. Those cold eyes glared at Grell. "Hence why I gave the approval to this."

"This is a suicide mission and you_ know_ it," Grell sharply shot at him.

"If it comforts you, I suggest to have you assisted by Ronald Knox, then again, given his state, you're on your own. The benefit to this is that you are suspended from any collection, while it may give overtime on my part it enables you to concentrate on your currant task." He turned away once more, he was heading for the double doors. "You have up until the new year, by then, the mission will be considered a failure and you will lose immortality."

There was no room for argument, no room for protest. He had to follow the orders like a dog. He was left standing there with his hands balled into a fist with teeth grinding against one another.

-...-

Fog had set in when Grell arrived in the slums of London in the quiet morning. His red coat, now clean of blood as was his uniform, swung behind him with every step. The tail licked the back of his legs as he hurriedly rushed at the side of the street. His steps had little pounce, only a sense of duty and need to finish his task as soon as he can.

Undertaker's establishment was tucked away in the lower parts of London. Surely the man would have other facilities where he would conduct his work for the sake of convenience, but Grell had to learn their locations. It would only be logical to investigate his main office.

The front of the shop was riddled with coffins, surely none would bother to steal his samples as there wouldn't be much use to them. He passed by one for the door, his hand reached the knob and tried to turn it. He found it locked, as expected and a good indication that the man wasn't there. He closed his eyes and imagined the little tumblers in the lock.

Consciously, he concentrated on the tumblers being prodded and lifted up from their place. With the little pegs going into their slots, he heard a distinct click!, telling him that he had successfully undid the lock. He entered the shop with the little bell alerting the rats to scuttle to and fro from their places on the floor to hiding spots.

Grell grimaced at the little creatures as he took an oil lamp from atop a coffin and lit it with a lighter from his pocket. He closed the door behind him and locked it for good measure.

The shop was unclean yet had a sense of organization. Shelves were lined with coffins that were prepared and made ready for later uses. A table or two had embalming tools for display, along with the walls lined with a myriad of trinkets collected over the years. Grell weaved himself around the coffins that were left out on the floor, he wouldn't be surprised if there were bodies inside.

He lifted the candle upwards so that he may have better lighting. The proprietor of the establishment thought it fun to board up the windows.

A sense of paranoia set in. The freak first met him by appearing from a coffin. Grell quickly opened all of the caskets in the front room and found, much to his relief, that they were empty of bodies and of Undertaker. He decided to check the desk were he saw the man settle himself on his first visit to the parlor.

He went behind it and placed the lamp on the desk. He started rummaging through the desk by opening drawers and cabinets. All that were stashed there were documents on his clients and nothing of indication of where Undertaker would be. His hand reached underneath the desk's top for a brief moment and, much to his pleasure, he produced a key that hung by tape.

He pulled it out and examined it by candlelight. It would be a much more better convenience than to waste his powers opening locks. After putting everything back in order, he got up with the key tucked in his hand and took the candle with him towards the back of the shop. There was a black curtain that covered the entrance of stone stairs that lead down into the darkness.

Grell heard the sound of something shuffling upon the floor with bare feet.

It echoed up to him, sending shivers down his spine. He feared going down there, he knew not what to expect, let alone how large of an area he would have to fight in should any threats arise; for all he knew, Undertaker could be down there.

His mind reeled back from earlier in the day, back to William giving him his assignment. The callous words he gave him radiated through his mind, a sense of pain stung when he felt that William could care less if he died or came back; the apparent resentment was profound, Grell knew little himself as to why he had to be treated as such.

Chains clunked in the darkness. Whatever resided down there was chained up, it was reassuring. Collecting his barings, he started his descent down into the darkness with that little flame flickering in one hand and the key being grasped tighter in the other.

He started slow but quickly picked up the pace. When he reached the bottom, his small light illuminated the basement. It was a rather larger chamber than the parlor itself, carved into the earth with a hallway to the West and another one to the East. Inside this room were piles of wood and various other materials to create coffins. Undertaker was, indeed, quite the craftsman; he approached one of the nearly finished coffins and found the wood carvings to be so intricate, they would have told a story if the designer chose to make one.

Shelves were lined with tools and a multitude of little, wooden figurines the man had carved over the years.

His thoughts were snapped into alert when he heard a feminine groan and chains clinking once more. He dared to venture down the West hall, candle ahead of him to light the way. The clicks of his heels on the stone masonry suddenly turned into sloshing sounds, he looked down and saw that he was stepping in a familiar crimson liquid.

"Hm?"

He grimaced at this, wondering if Undertaker disemboweled someone for shits and giggles and then proceeded to drag the unfortunate soul down the hallway, leaving behind a bloody trail. The dampness told him that it was very recent, he grew cautious and considered the factor that Undertaker may be nearby, only hidden away and watching Grell in the darkness.

The hallway opened into another open room where the groans were getting louder when he drew closer. The light shined upon a bureau, a storage for clothes.

The blood trail grew thicker, he had a hunch that one of the Bizarre Dolls were here, or perhaps a tortured victim. Apprehension of what would show itself out of the darkness set in when he went deeper into the room. It was a bedchamber from what he could tell. A bed barely visible with, alarmingly, bloodstained covers piqued his curiosity; it reminded him of the whores he butchered with the Madam months prior.

He saw a bed stand that had little white objects glinting at him. He lowered the candle to the surface to see pearly white teeth, canines, incisors, and even molars with blood vessels still attached were gathered in a neat pile; all thirty-two. His eyes widened when he heard the groaning once more.

He brought his light up to see a pale back facing him. He craned his neck a bit in wonderment, his eyes followed the blood to the white form.

The person was sitting on the floor chained up in the corner, head low with hands at the sides. A few lacerations here and there indicated Undertaker had, for some demented reason, beaten the poor individual several times. Blood was seen but, oddly, no cuts.

It was a woman, as far as he could tell from the shape of her waist. Upon her back was a laceration that was intricately sewn up, it looked like it was barely healing at all.

She groaned as though she were in pain. If she were a hostage of Undertaker, Grell thought he could use her as leverage as she was chained within close quarters of his bed. His To Die List was taken from him, he had no knowledge if she had to be reaped or not, clearly she had lived here for quite some time. Crouching down, he cautiously approached her.

"...miss?" He asked gently, the groaning stopped, she paused. "Are you alright?"

Around both her hands were shackles that fettered her to the wall. The chains rattled when she moved one hand, she was reaching for something but he couldn't see. The key in his other hand may be the key that would undo her bindings.

"I'll get you out of here," he said reassuringly, carefully going closer. When he was within reach of her, his gloved hand went to her shoulder. And then she whirled around, groaning in an bestial manner. He fell back in surprise, he even shouted. He landed on his back and began to crawl backwards to get away.

The little lamp fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor closer to the woman, revealing her features.

There was a large cut between her breasts from where the chainsaw had entered the body and ended her life. Like the wound on her back, it was sewn close as well.

She was stripped of all her clothes, her porcelain skin bloody and smeared with dirt. He could see her breasts and a patch of red hair between her legs glistening from the candlelight, but a noticeable sight was the apparent angry scar that lined her abdomen. His heart slammed into his throat and then sank when he realized who she may be. Her eyes may be covered by a blindfold but her hair, her unmistakeable red hair cut into a bob-cut, gave away who she was.

Her mouth was agape with her tongue hanging loose like a dog, he saw that her teeth were pulled from her; they were the same set he found on the table. It closed once in a while at will but stayed open for the most part, there was blood leaking from the corners of her mouth.

Grell screamed at her, the former Madam Red now turned into a monstrous freak. He kept crawling back until he hit the table, causing the teeth to fall from the edge and into his lap. He let out a shrill shriek and flung himself to the other wall, eyes fixated on the woman that tried escape her bonds.

She grew restless at his screams. In a fit of trying to release herself, she knocked over the lamp and the light fell into the pool of blood, dousing itself. His screams resonated once more and he desperately tried find an escape. His mind spun, the sight of her and her teeth were enough to send his stomach whirling. He felt nauseous, sickened by this.

He felt his innards twist and turn, he tried to hold it in, and he barely managed to. He kept screaming God's name in vain, along with a stream of curses to Undertaker. Indeed, he murdered her, but to be given such a fate in the afterlife was uncalled for. To him, the dead stay dead, this was unnatural. In the darkness, he heard the sound of bells from the parlor from the first floor. Instincts told him to hide, and he dove for going underneath the bed, he was grateful that he was thin enough to fit under.

In the small shelter, he did his best to conceal himself. He was lucky that the bed was large enough to cover his form. As he held his breath, he felt rodents crawling over his legs. His breath was caught in his throat as he tried to stay silent. He heard the chains and the creature shuffle about on the wall.

Over the squeaks of rats and rattles of chains, he suddenly heard heavy footsteps coming closer, along with a steady hum. From the hallways shined a light that poured into the room. Soon enough, it bathed it. From the dimness he saw a pair of boots pause at the edge of the bed, only two feet away from him. The humming figure lit a larger lamp, lighting the room completely. Grell's eyes were wide, he couldn't bring himself to get out from under the bed and fight.

He was too scared. He had so much fear. His heart pounded and, if possible, it could be heard quite clearly. He clung to the key even tighter and waited, hoping that the man would be distracted. Soon he heard the man whistle and then take a few steps for the bed. Grell was utterly petrified.

With a tired groan, the man sat upon the bloodstained bed for a brief moment. His feet were so close to Grell's face, he could have licked the heel. He knew it was Undertaker, it couldn't be anyone else with those boots. Slowly, the boots were lifted up and out of sight and the bed creaked and groaned as the man got himself comfortable enough to rest himself, all the while ignoring Madam Red.

Grell stayed there, unmoving, it was absolutely horrifying. He lost track of time, it could have been hours that he was underneath the sleeping man. He listened carefully to his breaths until they faded away; Shinigami were truly in deep sleep when they cease to breathe. When Grell sensed it was safe to move, the bed shifted around once more and he froze.

The boots fell to the floor elsewhere, he glanced to the right and saw a part of Madam Red's thighs. The boots had appeared there as well. He wondered why the man would get off of his bed from that end, but then disturbing thoughts came when he heard a zipper going undone.

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	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji

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He saw Madam Red slowly bring herself to stand up, only her thin ankles were in view. His eyes traveled around the floor until they fell upon the bottom of a full length, ornate mirror; it was tilted, thus giving him a clear sight of the pair's visages, at the most he only saw their chests and above.

As he had correctly deduced from the boots, it was truly Undertaker. The man, whose silver bangs now tucked back to reveal those mischievous eyes, had that Cheshire grin that stretched from ear to ear; he was scrutinizing the dead woman's features, a hand caressed her thin cheek with a long, raven nails. He was touching her in an affectionate manner, his other hand was out of the mirror's limits.

Undertaker hummed to himself, causing the creature before him to croon in response. Over time, as he continued that loving song, the once aggressive Madam Red was mollified into a submissive demeanor. Her jaw snapped open and closed but she stood obediently through his support.

Chains scraped against the floor, some gently clinked against one another; her hands were being manipulated to go elsewhere on Undertaker's body, Grell knew that she wasn't embracing him nor was he doing so to her.

"You were quite restless when I got here," Undertaker murmured huskily, his neck craning downwards to have their lips so close that they could breathe the air of one another. "Would you care to explain, m'dear?"

But the Madam could only response with high croaks from her throat. He nodded as if he understood the noise.

"I see," he replied, but then he inhaled sharply,"careful there, Madam Red..."

Grell's eyelid twitched in disgust. It didn't take an idiot to know he was getting the revived woman to perform fellatio, God forbid if he even forces her mouth to his genitals. He felt his stomach flip somersaults when he saw Undertaker's lips meet the woman's. Tongues lazily slid over one another, a grunt came from him as she grew aggressive with her mouth.

A mix of saliva and blood leaking from the small gaps between their conjoined lips stained both their chins before dripping off to the floor; their lips were visible every so often to exchange such bodily fluids. Undertaker pressed his chest against hers, the hand that once stroked her cheek was now behind her head, grasping her hair and keeping her in place. It didn't stop her movements with those accursed lips.

Those lips, ones that Grell had the pleasure to taste and enjoy before, began to fight for dominance, or for a decent meal. The hand that was entangled in her hair grasped it harshly while the other hand pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to disappear from the mirror. Undertaker's expression changed, his eyes closed and his teeth bit on his bottom lip, but that smug smile was still plastered there.

Grell understood why her teeth were pulled, and he was mortified that her body would be desecrated in such a way that defiled the laws of any man with a straight mind. But Undertaker was definitely not one to hold his sanity. The man groaned softly in pleasure, grunting only when the woman did something he loved.

The man's face, slowly contorting in twisted pleasure, was rather intriguing to Grell. In fact, he leaned a little to the right to see the details much more carefully. His silver hair, which strangely made him much more appealing than he let on, fit rather nicely with his pale complexion. He was old, Grell could only guess him to be a thousand years old or so just by his hair color alone. He heard of stories of Deserters who grew tired of working and simply wanted to leave the Dispatch Society.

That nasty scar that stretched from his left eye down to his right cheek added to his portrayal of one word that placed him above any other Deserter: insane.

Where he received it would be a tale for another day. For now, it only shrunk or extended with the movement of the man's jaw as he clenched and unclenched itself. His breathing became ragged, hinting that he was getting close.

Grell had his fair share of walk-ins and stumbles into sexual activities throughout of the offices, if he was lucky to find any action, and normally would have seen this arousing. If it were with a human, man or woman, that would be alive, he would have asked to join. His morals, however shattered they are, had somehow reached a limit from this.

His stomach, already whirling about, threatened him with emptying itself through his mouth. His hand went to his lips to cover them, he grimaced at this violating act.

He saw Undertaker throw his head back with a jolting breath. He then released it in the form of a low, feral moan; he reached his completion at long last. His head fell forward and he let out a satisfied sigh. From where he lain, Grell saw a bit of that white cream dripping to the floor.

"Good Doll," he heard Undertaker praised her. There was a sinister chuckle that followed as he effortlessly forced the living corpse away from his body, he took a step back though he was still within sight of the mirror. His hand went to his face to brush away the bangs that had suddenly fell over his eyes. Upon tucking those thin locks behind his ear, Grell swore that the man's eyes flickered towards the mirror, towards Grell himself. A smug smirk fell on those pale lips.

His heart skipped a beat when those calculating eyes sought for his.

It was only a brief moment, he wasn't able to tell if he was imagining it or if it had been for real. He then walked off, only pausing to zip up his pants.

Madam Red began to shuffle about on her knees, as if unknowing why Undertaker parted from her. If these corpses consumed flesh, surely removing their teeth would turn them into harmless beings or, for Undertaker's entertainment, pleasure seeking toys.

"Oh, now, now, my lady, don't get restless. I'll be back before you know it," Undertaker told her, he suddenly stalled his steps when the tip of his boot hit a metal object. It was an oil lamp, the same one Grell dropped. The man's hand reached for it and took it. "Hm...? Must have fallen off the bureau when she threw a fit..."

He heard the oil lamp being placed on a wooden surface. A whistle came from him as he went to the nightstand to douse one of the candles, leaving only a single one to heavily dim the room with its tiny flame. He left the room, his tune matching the beat of every step. Eventually, the steps and light ebbed away, though the whistling was still audible.

A few minutes passed, soon the bells from upstairs rung, Undertaker had left the establishment altogether.

He knew better than to linger in one place. He scuttled out from under the bed and stood up, his hand taking out the lighter to see where the oil lamp was. It was, as where Undertaker had stopped, perched on the bureau. He lit the small wick and brought his attention to Madam Red.

She was still on her knees, but unmoving. Her mouth was agape with whiteness leaking from her lips. He set the lamp on the bureau and then went to the bed; he sat upon the worn mattress and stared at her. The initial shock of seeing her had slowly ebbed away, he began to accept she was simply just another one of those freaks Undertaker created.

There must have been a reason why she would be housed here. She had some form of importance to Undertaker. Killing her would alert the Deserter that Grell was, in fact, here and, if he were clever enough, know exactly who was pursuing him. Grell didn't want to risk losing track of Undertaker. Grell had learned that corpses housed only Cinematic Records, or at least botched ones that Undertaker had tampered with.

He wondered if she had Records within her body that required her to be placed in this room.

As she groaned and shifted about, Grell reached out to her. His gloved hands went to her chin and tipped it up so that she may face him. Unlike earlier, she was calm about physical contact.

"What has the madman done to you, darling?" He uttered quietly, eyelids heavy. He tried to imagine her alive and much more healthier, even clothed, but all he saw was a pitiful creature. He buried his face in the palm of his hands.

Killing her once more would bring her to peace but would alert her captor that he was the subject of a pursuit.

Keeping her alive would accomplish nothing except remind him that she was up and out of her coffin.

A hand went to his knee, he looked down at it but didn't flinch. He only felt a sickening tug at his stomach. Those nails had been pulled out, leaving only pink flesh exposed to him at her fingertips. He brought himself to see Madam Red once more.

"Why keep their eyes covered...?" Grell curiously reached out to her face knowing that if she bit at him, he wouldn't feel any pain. She stayed in place at the touch of his gloved hand, he brought his fingers under the straps of the night mask. He swallowed and slipped the mask up to see her eyes.

However, there were no eyes.

There were two empty sockets in the fair lady's head, two holes that were set upon her face. They were empty, black, not even the sign of flesh or blood can be see. Grell's jaw dropped, stunned. Those ruby eyes that he once stared into so adoringly long ago were gone, they were just pits of nothing. Undertaker was truly the disturbed man; Grell was no stranger to missing organs, but he never thought to aim for the eyes.

Tongues, extremities, ears, even genitals were something he was familiar and comfortable with, but a missing pair most important features to a human beings was so foreign to him. How Undertaker had extracted those precious orbs from the corpse was something Grell could oddly applaud for.

He was about to cover her face until he saw a slight glow appear from her right eye. He squinted at it as it became brighter, the whiteness illuminated that socket and began to rise up from the black depths. It was a white strand of a tangible substance that snaked out from one hole and into her left. More came out from her right socket, only briefly showing itself before hiding once again like a snake.

It was a Cinematic Record.

Typically, as memories upon reaping, Cinematic Records would reveal themselves when the corporeal form (the body) would be sliced open by a death scythe; the action would be at the heart where the soul resides. The soul and its memories would be exposed for the judgement of a Shinigami who, after an evaluation of the individual's life, would slice apart and **"END"** the Cinematic Record. This prevents the soul from creating more memories and allow for a proper collection.

The soul would automatically be reaped by the death scythe and later be recorded into the Book of Life, the final stage for a soul. The memories, however, were left behind in the body, a single flaw that Grell had realized that Shinigami have done. With the addition of rigged memories, especially false ones Undertaker had created, bodies were able to reanimate themselves among the living; they would lack their souls, hence be driven to consume others to fill in the void.

He understood how Undertaker would be able to incorporate the false Cinematic Records into the bodies. The eyes were removed to create an opening, like removing glass to a window so that nothing can block the flow of air coming into a hollow room. The blackness would explain that the soul had been reaped and no longer resided in the body.

His hand reached out for that small, translucent strand and extended it outwards to view it.

His eyes watched as scenes flashed before him.

It wasn't a replay of her life but of her life with Grell.

He saw only various scenes from murdering whores to playing the piano with her. There were a myriad of miscellaneous activities events, all of them contained Grell himself. It was like Undertaker purposefully focused on the man in those memories. He expected to see himself fade out but, instead, was only met with more.

_"Grell, be a dear and wash these."_

_"Yes, Madam."_

She handed him a bloodied blouse and skirt.

_"Grell, can you fetch me my coat?"_

_"Yes, Madam."_

He gave her that famous red coat.

_"Grell...she's our target."_

_"Of course, Madam. At once."_

She pointed at a whore that stood at the corner.

_"Grell, please satisfy my curiosity," _her voice told him lazily as he watched himself gag a woman on the street.

And then the scene shifted to match her dialogue. It was of him lying in bed with her after an hour or so of extraneous activities. Her body was laying upon his as he was propped against pillows. He was running his hand through her hair. He had that smile, he softly replied,_"Yes, love?"_

_"As a Shinigami...you have the powers to alternate your appearance."_

_"True."_

_"Why not have the ability to change your gender?"_

Grell gave a mournful sigh,_"Simply due to the fact I was born this way. The body you see before you is the full extent that I can physically change my features to that of a woman. Our bodies are immortal, as is our organs which are, unfortunately, a part of our bodies. I can do this-"_ His hair went from that blazing red to mousy brown. _"-or this-"_ It changed to black only briefly but then returned to being crimson. _"-but our gender differentiates us completely."_

_"Then your face..."_

_"That stays generally the same, sadly. Bone structure only shifts when we damage it, something I wish to never have done. I'm as beautiful enough now, I only want to enhance that if I ever see the chance to bear children. I lack the vital organs for that though-"_

**END.**

Undertaker had managed to edit everything else, even her birth and death were removed.

After the **END.**, a scene of the mad man dancing with a bowler hat and square mustache, along with a cane at hand, played itself in a loop. A jolly piano resounded in the background. Grell ripped his attention away from the scene, eyes wide at seeing his wish, a deep desire, being shared to the woman.

His hand, still at her forehead, slid the face mask back over her eye sockets and forced the Cinematic Record return into the void.

He got up and left her kneeling on the floor. He observed her a bit longer, and she began to move as if upset by the lack of contact. The chains rattled and she groaned loudly, but when he didn't respond; she began to quiet down and turn around to face the wall. She sat down and returned to the original position in which he found her.

He took the oil lamp from the bureau and began to leave. His heel kicked at a fallen tooth, he ignored that and quietly went down the hallway. He was back into the larger chamber of where the wood and cloths were stored for Undertaker's crafting. He went towards the East hallway.

It split off with a door to the left and another to the right. He tried to enter the left one but it was locked. He used the key he found, which he nearly forgot he clung to, and unlocked the door; apparently, it wasn't meant for the shackles. His lamp showered the room with light. A stench of alcohol and formaldehyde reached his nostrils, prompting him to cover his nose.

The room was decently spacious as it was the embalming room. There were a row of tables where bodies would be individually cleaned up; the foot of the tables faced the door and were about four feet apart from one another. Shelves held jars where organs were stored. There was a small scale for the organs and a large scale for bodies situated in the center of the room.

At one corner was the bath and sink. Both had a significant amount of bloodstains lining the walls, porcelain rims, and floor.

At another corner was a large hole in the wall that acted as a lift into the upper floor, a convenient way to transport readied bodies. He stepped over to the lift to see if anything was hidden there. Shining his light into the dark hole, he only saw a nest of rats that scattered away from the brightness, all squeaking in agitation. A white skull was left behind, he dismissed it as it was nothing of importance. He glanced upward and saw that the shaft was blacked by the panel that carried the body.

He stepped away from the lift and and made his way out of the embalming room, closing it and making sure it was locked. He took several breaths and turned for the other door. It was wooden, seemingly harmless as well. He opened it, as it was unlocked, and found a room empty of everything except for a gramophone that sat upon a table with several records scattered on the wooden surface.

He approached the table and examined every large, black disc. His attention shifted to the gramophone, he placed the oil lamp on the table so that he may turn the crank. He brought the needle at the edge of the spinning disc already loaded and all he heard was the familiar, jolly tune of the piano. It was steady but skipped a beat every once in a while.

Grell took a chance to glance at the wall, it was gray, just like everything else in the room. He felt that going to the Undertaker's parlor was useless, he regretted not choosing to follow him out of the establishment. He sat there, quiet, but eventually began to hum in time with the piano, he even tapped his foot to the beat. He sighed and removed the needle after a minute or so of the rancorous, lively tune.

He stepped up from the table and began to leave the room with the oil lamp.

It had been ten minutes since Undertaker left. Grell had wasted his time here. He entered the hallway and went into the supply chamber for the last time. Madam Red's chains and her noises were heard as he began to make his ascent to the ground floor. His lamp showed the way, his steps were going faster. He was planning on checking through the back door where Undertaker most likely loaded his clients into the funeral carriages or wagons for travel.

As he neared the ground floor, he took out his pocket watch to see the time. It was half passed four in the afternoon-

His train of thought was abruptly halted, silver was all he saw flash before him. It came from above, but his eyes were trained on the watch's face to see anything come at him. The next thing he knew, he had dropped all that he carried; the breaking of glass echoed through his ears but it faded away when he was pinned to the overhanging wall above the staircase.

In front of him was a white, wooden pole, his eyes followed it down to a set of ribs encircling it, the end was topped with a skull that wore a crown of thorns. The sharp blade, oh so sharp, had pierced through his abdomen but exited through his middle back. He moved his legs and was thankful that there was no penetration of his spine. His mouth immediately coughed up blood, he looked up to see a grinning man staring back at him with calculating eyes; he was perched in the rafters with the handle of his death scythe in one hand.

"Strange that they sent you here but highly amusing, yes?" Undertaker inquired mockingly.

Grell couldn't move, but he knew his weight was being pulled down to gravity. He could deal with the scythe piercing his body, however, he couldn't afford to let it touch his soul. Both his hands slammed on the wall and desperately pressed against the smooth surface for some form of friction to hold him up. There was no anvil. He felt the bandages under his shirt go undone, he knew that he wouldn't be able to regenerate quickly enough to fight back.

His vision began to dim as the pain grew, it was too much for him to handle. Surely the blade had burst an organ or two. He felt himself getting weaker by the second. He couldn't make a Transition for the life of him, he couldn't even focus his powers to summon his death scythe. As if by miracle, Undertaker dislodged the scythe from Grell, causing him to fall down to the stairs.

Seizing his freedom, Grell's legs kicked, his hands clawed at the steps. He scrambled to reach the middle of the parlor. Throwing a glance back over his shoulder, Grell saw Undertaker falling through the rafters and landing on his feet. That intimidating death scythe was slung over his shoulder as he approached Grell.

He coughed up more blood upon the floor. If he could get as far as he could from him, maybe he could send for help through one of the pigeons outside. He gagged when blood flowed through his throat once more, he paused to spew out another pint of it.

_Internal bleeding,_ he thought. His bleeding wound left a trail, his legs sloshed in it as he crawled pathetically for the door.

"It's suicide to send you alone," Undertaker snickered as he leaped over Grell's form. He stood in front of him, Grell could see his boots. One of them tapped his shoulder then it gently rolled him onto his back. Grell let out shout at the pain. "Very unwise."

"I...wasn't fond...of their decision either," he spluttered. His breathing became labored. So much pain. Just too much. His eyes were wide as he stared up at Undertaker, he glared threateningly at him.

His smile fell into a frown. "No one is, m'dear. Pray tell...had you ever considered leaving?"

Grell was slightly confused, Undertaker caught on to it and added,"I meant leaving the Dispatch Society altogether."

"W-what choice do I have? I'm...fucked in the end either way," he spat,"and don't...get any ideas of...of me ever joining you."

"Oh? A shame, but I wasn't even asking you. Well, I ought to clean up my mess, don't want my customers coming in thinking I run a slaughterhouse rather than a funeral home. Humans tend to be revolted at the sight of blood yet they have no problems holding the dead," he said, that smile came back. He tapped the tip of his boot to Grell's cheek. "Hm..."

He looked thoughtful, as if contemplating what he would do. Perhaps he already knew what his devious plans were. Whatever he was thinking, Grell didn't like the expression he was giving him at all.

He gasped out,"You...are...**insane**..."

Undertaker laughed under his breathe. "Heh, I get that a lot!"

Grell felt himself slip away into darkness so quickly. Undertaker's form disappeared into the world that was slowly being inked away. All he could remember were those piercing, green eyes brilliantly gleaming down at him.

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	3. Chapter 3

"Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji

* * *

He remembered the last time he had been impaled.

It was at the end of the Battle of Culloden, 1746.

He was alone for this collection, it was a tedious mission. He found a lone Scotsman exhausted and starved from the surprise of the British troops upon Culloden Moor; he was dying at the base of a tree. The young man, perhaps in his early twenties, had the most vicious eyes Grell had seen that day. Grell swore he wouldn't forget that man.

**Gwyn Lorne, born on July 6 of 1724. Died of blood loss on April 16 of 1746. No remarks.**

Grell approached him after reaping an unfortunate soul in the middle of the field. With his death scythe at his side, he gave a sigh. The man could have been the three hundredth one by now, oh how much he wished for assistance. The human had taken a shot to the chest and was quickly perishing from his wound yet he was clinging on to life.

Lorne made no effort to leave, yet he wasn't going to accept death. As if he was trying to insult Grell, the man suddenly took a rapier from the ground and pierced Grell in the heart without uttering a curse. Grell was unfazed by this, a body of a god had received no injury from a mere mortal but it felt like a painful pinch. The redhead stared down at the sword, reached to the handle, and then withdrew it from his chest.

He tossed it away as Lorne's hand dropped to the bloodstained grass; his chest healed on its own within seconds. Grell was so fixated on those eyes. A burning hatred, not one of fear, was all he could see. Hatred towards death? Frustration he lost in the game of life? It was certainly something, it wasn't every day a human would fight against a god, it would only be their Cinematic Records that would ensue a battle for life. Those eyes...

He reaped him, judged him accordingly, and left to work for another hour. Those eyes...

The dead reached out to him in acceptance. They lacked those eyes...

He searched in that field of death, there was no replication of _those eyes..._

-...-

Pain coursed through his body. It was so unbearable that he awoke with a cry, his chest heaving and his body trembling, yet his sudden movements made it all worse. He never felt such agonizing feelings through out his life, it was ineffable.

Grell laid in bed. It was the same bed he had hid himself under when Undertaker committed lewd acts with a living corpse. He knew now what the time was but all he knew was the crippling pain that the death scythe had inflicted upon him. To add to the sharpness in his abdomen, he found his right wrist clapped in irons; he was unable to move to be comfortable, he only stayed on his back.

_What the fuck is this!?_

His glasses were missing, as were his shirt and vest. He only recognized the room just by the lighting and the feint blurs of the furniture. Overall, he felt blind and helpless; he wanted to leave and yet he failed to draw strength to make a Transition at all. His free hand began to struggle, his feet trashed about, his stomach whirled as his muscles around him were being strained; a quick glance downwards showed that blood had suddenly bled up into the wrappings that covered his wound.

Clearly, something underneath the whiteness opened.

Instinct kicked in.

His left palm, open and unrestrained, tried to summon his death scythe. After a few discouraging tries, it materialized n the air and then gently fell into his palm. Quickly, he swung it to the other side of his body with great effort. He grunted from the strenuous act as he brought the cord to his right hand.

The blades of his chainsaw dangerously prodded the air above him but he didn't care. The death scythe could cut anything! He needed his binds to be cut.

Soon enough, the familiar and comforting purr came in spurts before launching itself into a blasting roar. With only one hand on his death scythe, he lifted it forward and above while his right hand stretched out the chain; he had to make the cut precise. He'd be damned if he managed to cut through his arm instead.

"C'mon," he gritted out as a plea while he swung his death scythe back. He ducked his head to the left to avoid the teeth.

A deafening clash of metal breaking through metal rung through his ears as sparks flew to the bed, dying down with soft hisses. The chain to his cuff was cleaved in half, much to his comfort. His stomach churned once again, he felt suddenly sick.

He sent away his death scythe and rolled to his side, feeling something from inside demanding to leave through his mouth. His lips parted and he emptied whatever his stomach held, spewing a green substance profusely onto the floor. He panted for a moment, then vomited once again. His right hand, still clasped by the cuff, went to his stomach to hold it.

Grell's hand felt something moist seep through the bandages.

Groaning with tears coming to his eyes, he paused to recollect himself.

The sound of infernal rats squeaking all around him danced through his mind. If he listened closer, he swore he could hear their tiny voices mocking him, their little paws pointing at him, laughing. Grell breathed laboriously as he struggled to get himself out of bed; his abdomen seared with pain, causing him to sit back down.

He knew he was somewhere unsafe, he knew he had to leave this place, he knew Undertaker could come back at any moment to kill him.

Why the man would wrap him up in bandages after just nearly killing him was beyond Grell's reasoning.

"That...bastard," he uttered, gathering his bearings to fight the pain. His hand reached to the headboard of the bed and used it to heft himself to his bare feet. He avoided the puddle of mess he made as he saw a glint of red on the nightstand.

Leaning closer to it, he found that they were his glasses folded neatly with the chains bunched up behind the lenses. He immediately reached to them and placed it on, he definitely needed them to see. The feint candlelight from several candles set on the stand and bureau.

Legs weak from being out of use for what felt like ages, Grell staggered over to the bureau, hands trembling for the nearest candle. He knew he needed it for light to traverse down the dark hallway behind him. Pain shot through him relentlessly, causing him to hiss and grit his teeth; he swore his molars could have cracked.

He gave a sweeping glance around the room to see if any of his possessions were here. There was nothing that belonged to him.

He was slightly grateful Undertaker had taken the liberty of removing Madam Red from the room, her disappearance certainly alerted him that Undertaker will be back soon to check on him. His feet wanted to give out on him, he threw himself against the wall; one hand pressed against the stone surface while the other held to the candle.

Slowly but surely, he began to walk at a snail's pace. He used the wall to support himself, stopping every few steps to give himself a brief rest.

He began to fear that Undertaker may have heard him from the racket his chainsaw made, it encouraged him to go faster. When he reached the woodcarving room, his feet were met by splinters, he whimpered when the tiny shards dug into his soft, tender feet.

The stairwell was just a foot away. The sound of a door opening rang with bells from above, Undertaker may have returned. Grell thought for a moment, his eyes scanned the woodcarving room; he needed a distraction. With the candle at hand, he tossed it into a pile of cloth nearby. The fabrics burst into flames, engulfing all of the clothed material for Undertaker's public practice.

Flames followed on to more piles of cloth and then eventually to the shaves of wood that were scattered on the floor. Within minutes, wood piles were alight and a few unfinished coffins began to burn. Smoke filled the room, Grell heard the sound of boots pounding against the stone steps rather hastily; he hid behind the corner.

Undertaker dashed out from the corner of his eye, quickly coming into full view with an arm raised to avoid the intensity of the flames. Surely he looked confused as he stood there for a bit too long. Grell used the chance to slip around the corner.

Drawing strength, he peeled himself from the wall and ran, he ran up the steps for the first floor of the parlor. The shop was completely empty, he stumbled a bit but caught himself by the desk. His mind fought so hard to ignore the pain, he honestly tried. He felt sick all over again but he choked down anything that threatened to spill from his mouth again.

"The door," he murmured to himself. His mind spoke to him in a high, shrill voice. It was like it was panicking.

_The door, the door, the door!_

He whispered,"I need to get out."

He launched himself across the shop, his legs were so close to give way to the pain. He desperately wanted to get far away as possible from Undertaker; he needed time to heal, he needed it now.

His body thudded against the door.

_Turn the knob before he gets you again!  
_

"Finally," Grell uttered in relief as his hand went to the brass handle to turn it. The rest of the work was done by his weight. He fell through into the outside world, his eyes were blinded by light and his body met the ground. A few bystanders saw him but did nothing, how typical of humans.

Grell scrambled to his feet, he couldn't Transition back home in this state. He looked up to see those humans running about, screaming about fire. Grell looked over his shoulder to see the flames had suddenly grown large with explosions raging behind him.

It must have hit the embalming room and touched the chemicals in there, he could only speculate as Undertaker simply stood there in stunned silence. Grell reached out for one of the display coffins and brought himself to stand up. Shoulders bumped him but he trudged on, avoiding those who had brought water buckets in sorry attempts to douse the fire.

They were all so caught up in the chaos that he was ignored quite easily.

The sound of horses crying reached his ears, he knew he couldn't take to the rooftops at the moment. He meandered through the bustling crowd that grew from the neighboring buildings to fight the fire. Among the mess he found a chestnut mare trying to run from her master whose hand was on one rein.

"Damn it! Ya stupid animal!" Grell heard the gruff man say. Grell shoved him to the side, casting him against the floor while taking one hand up to the horse's neck. "`ey, wot the `ell ya doin`?!"

Under his touch, the horse mollified herself and stood in place obediently, though her ears were pinned back as several people dashed by with water buckets. Grell kicked the ground and swiftly mounted the horse to avoid the hassle of climbing on; he didn't even bother stuffing his feet through the stirrups. Could pain have been able to make sounds, his abdomen would have been roaring.

"Get off`a `er!"

Groaning, he kicked at the horse's great belly and broke her into a canter down the street, breezing passed several people that were spilling out from their shops.

Shouts resonated all around him but he didn't bother looking back once again. His hands gathered at the reins as he struggled to keep his balance. He glanced down at his stomach once again. Even more bleeding. So much blood. He knew he could be making a scene of himself as he was shirtless.

Being out in the public, one could have thought he was an escapee from a hospital of the sorts, maybe even a mental hospital. He wasn't decent at all but he cared less, he knew he was getting far pretty fast. The horse, as if memorizing all the corners of the slums, nimbly whipped around corners, taking him as far as she could at her pace.

They broke out into the street by the Thames, he saw a bridge that would lead to the other side of the water. Turning her head, he directed her to the bridge. He was only half way across until his mare spooked at something, suddenly causing her to rear in her own defense. As his feet were not in the stirrups, he slipped out of the saddle and slid down her back with hands losing a grip of the reins.

_Shit!_

He continued to slide down, then he fell into the river with a strong splash. He tried to kick as he quickly sank so some ungodly reason. Arms flailing in the water, he watched as he slowly drifted down and away from the surface. The pain, oh the pain from his belly stung so horribly in the salty water.

Grell didn't need to breathe but he screamed. He curled up like a perishing insect as he withered from the wretched stinging. It was simply maddening to feel this, it was all too much to deal with one issue right after the other. He screamed once again as blood suddenly inked the water around him; the bindings had unraveled and his flesh was exposed even further.

As he sank, his hands went to where his wound was in a feeble attempt to close whatever he opened. Much to his horror, his hand met something pudgy, something unnatural to him. He dared to glance down and, by the feint sunlight, he saw a red, tube like object snake out of his belly. His eyes grew wide as one end came from within him; his eyes followed the red tube for the other end.

He could barely make out the object that had drifted over a foot away. He squinted his eyes in the murky water to see whatever it was but he simply couldn't make out the image. Time felt like it stopped for him, the pain he felt didn't dissipate, he felt that it only numbed.

His heartbeat, once racing, was now calmly following a steady rhythm. He could feel his blood pulsate through his body before escaping into the water, he had his fair share of blood but this was sickening and all too much; it was coming from him, a sure ill sign of bleeding out to death.

While Shinigami were immortal, blood was a part of them, it was well needed to support themselves. If he lost any more, his Cinematic Records could begin to seep out with his blood. After all, he was injured by a death scythe for God knows how long ago; that weapon was meant to reap and, if used inappropriately, could mean the death of a fellow reaper. The thoughts of passing away in the river crossed his mind, the thoughts of failure on his part of the mission also came to.

He was slated to lose everything he had left by the end of the year, it would be futile to fight for his life at all. He felt like giving up. Catching Undertaker was impossible. Hell, Grell was the one who ended up getting captured himself.

His eyes rolled upwards as he head fell back; the surface of the water had light pouring through. It was calm and quiet when being alone in the bottom of a river. Somewhat soothing. Moments pass, he blinked once, may twice, on the third time a black form broke into his isolated world.

Whatever it was, it was diving for him. His hand with the cuff unconsciously reached out despite he was not telling it to do so. The unidentifiable form drew nearer, eventually taking a grasp at his hand. Grell's eyes opened wider in surprise, stunned that this was not a hallucination his mind conjured up in his believed last moments.

He felt himself being pulled up, closer to the surface. In doing so, he saw the black form having silver dancing all around him. Light began to show the face of a grinning man, Grell knew all to well who it was.

Adrenaline kicked in at the sight of Undertaker. His chainsaw produced itself in his hand and he got it to work underwater; such machines were enchanted to work in various situations though he learned last year that it could be jammed by (shockingly) certain material such as Yorkshire wool. Water vibrated at the roaring of his chainsaw, he fought the friction to thrust it towards Undertaker but the man was quicker.

Undertaker dove lower and released Grell's hand. Taking the chance, Grell drew back his death scythe when he saw Undertaker beneath him; red was what he saw at this point, Cinematic Records could be showing themselves at any moment but he didn't care. He wanted to give one last fight.

He swore he could have heard a sharp chuckle in the water.

A well-placed punch hit him squarely in the chest. Grell ceased to attack as Undertaker rose a bit higher to seize the left wrist that had the hand holding the chainsaw. Grell felt an immense pressure on that spot before a ripping pain of heat coursed from his left forearm, he screamed once again as he felt his bone being snapped in two.

He lost feeling on that hand, his fingers went limp and released the chainsaw; he saw it quickly descend into the darkness of the Thames. He cursed when his only weapon to fight was now gone. Arms wrapped around him, he tried to fight it off but he simply couldn't, he was too weak from his attempting his last stand. Soon enough, darkness overcame him, he couldn't tell if he was falling deeper into the darkness of the river or he was in the process of dying.

All he knew of was the water around him. He was growing colder by the second. Blood, flesh, innards, when will his Cinematic Record show itself?

Probably soon, oh so very soon. At this point he would have welcomed them to burst forth to show his life, though he didn't fancy his life being viewed by the sick bastard that held him.

_Any second now..._

...but he lost sight of everything as his mind drifted off into oblivion.

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	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji

* * *

Grell groaned.

That was all he could do when he slowly began to regain consciousness. The watery grave in which he thought would be his final resting place had disappeared. He no longer floated in water but, instead, laid upon something solid. His head ached and his limbs burned, particularly his left hand. His mind, much like an old horse, walked slowly before picking up speed into a full gallop.

As he awakened to small sensations, he grew conscious of the intense ones.

His abdomen felt as though he had been sliced open, gutted, and burned all at the same time. He began to panic once again and tried to summon his death scythe, yet when he done so, it never fell to his hand. He shrieked until a cloth was brought to his mouth and stuffed into it. His sharp teeth bit into the fabric but it was shoved even deeper.

His eyes were met with Undertaker's.

Sparking emeralds, so playful and so calculating, Grell could only fear what the bastard was planning to do with him. He didn't like those eyes, nor the expression that came along with them. Undertaker had that maddening grin though it suddenly turned into a disapproving frown when he touched his cheek to examine Grell's facial features.

"Hm, your voice does get quite annoying," Undertaker mused. He released Grell's face and walked away. Grell was still allowed to keep his glasses on this time, he was grateful for it, at least he would have the chance to see what was coming to him. "I created Bizarre Dolls for their beauty, for their silence. You are, I shall admit, quite stunning but you seem to be the kind to have his mouth clatter incessantly, something I will not stand for."

Grell took his time to look around.

He was in some sort of dungeon. There were four, stone walls that were clearly underground, the only way out was a single door. Lining the walls were shelves that contained jars, something he wouldn't want to know what was in. A brief thought crossed his mind, he wondered if this fear of being at the mercy of his captor was what those prostitutes felt before he dealt with them as Jack the Ripper.

Grell had spent his entire life bringing death to others, torturing and abusing some before their designated time though he only explored such curiosities with his late Madam Red. He had dealt with injuries before though not to this degree, not to a point of where he threatened to lose consciousness every so often. His eyes began to drift open and closed, he wanted to keep an eye on Undertaker though the man had decided to take a seat upon a chair nearby.

Undertaker slowly drawled out,"You may be wondering why you're undergoing such pain." He ran a bony hand through his hair to brush it back to reveal those brilliant eyes once more. "Isn't that right, Mr. Sutcliff?"

"..." Grell gave a hesitant nod. Of course he wanted to know!...but at the same time, he just wanted to be rid of it. Grell tried to move his legs but found he was too weak to even lift a hand. He realized that his left forearm had been put in a splint while his stomach was covered by a dress shirt, he still wore the same slacks and damn, he felt utterly filthy. He wanted to speak though the cloth prevented him from doing so.

"I was about to finish you off when I caught you in my shop - yes, the one you so ingeniously burned down. No matter, I was going to leave that place to the rats anyway." He waved it off as he crossed one leg over and rested his hands neatly in his lap. "What was I saying? Ah, I was about to kill you but I got this...idea. You see...I used to work for the Dispatch Society as well, just like you.

"Offered a couple promotions numerous times but I declined them all simply because I had a chance to spend much more time in the human realm. As Officers, if you recall, they have the most interactions with humans. You know how our world is; same people, same expression, God forbid the same color. Everywhere you turn is the same damn thing, so much, in fact, my hair turned white out of sheer _boredom_! It's almost like being a rat in that little wheel of a cage, running, thinking you're going to get somewhere, doing the same thing...same, same, same. It wouldn't have killed for some variety in life, right?"

Undertaker chuckled, sending shivers down Grell's spine.

"As I told you aboard the Campania, I indeed thought to myself 'What if there was a continuation after death?'. Turns out, it's possible to do so by attaching leftover records at the end of a Cinematic Record. While memories live on, a soul is lacking, bodies move, Dolls seek to fill in the void. I spent most of my years researching how powerful they can be, how much they can sacrifice and still be able to walk, how different are they from humans. Leaving the Dispatch Society quietly was one thing, taking up an occupation as a mortician is another.

"Fifty years can truly open one's eyes. I only completed my research weeks ago and, as requested by some who I accidentally drew attention to (a rather rambunctious bunch), decided to put the same number of Dolls and humans on one boat to see which can outlast the other. I wasn't anticipating you, the younger one, and the demon to appear but no matter, you didn't skewer my results. Surely it wouldn't take an idiot to know which is the best killing machine by that point anyway. Unfortunately, my associates were not pleased with what occurred...so, they requested I do another experiment to compensate for the one you botched.

"Just so happens, right after I return from them, you seem to be rummaging through my shop. Again, I wanted you dead...but then as I was about to lift my blade up, I realized that I would never find another Shinigami to perform such tests on. Now...you may be wondering now what sort of tests I am going to perform on you. You can simply lay down and watch, your personal observation is not needed. I am simply curious as to how far you can be pushed."

He brought a book to read, Grell couldn't make out what the cover said but he wouldn't be surprised if it were a book of amusement of some sort. Grell squinted, he wanted to see the cover. Was the man going to read out loud to him? No, it didn't seem so, for he wasn't opening his mouth. He watched those eyes skim left to right, going through lines quickly without pausing.

Undertaker would let out a chuckle every so often, yet for the most part he maintained a neutral expression. It was like that for hours, or at least that was how it felt like for Grell.

People bring out books to read when they're bored or waiting for something to happen, it was a past time. Undertaker was waiting, but for what?

A knock on the door prompted Undertaker to send the book away as he stood up. A blindfold was brought to Grell's eyes to cover them.

"Hm, looks like they're here," he mused to himself. He opened the door and went out, though he spoke over his shoulder,"I'll be right back...and for God's sake, don't burn anything down. Do you know how long it took me to repair all of this?" He trailed off, muttering something about a great fire that swept through the slums.

Grell tried to sit up once again, yet his mind told him to stay put.

He wanted to get out of there, though his powers felt so weak, so feeble. A Shinigami can only take so much damage, his powers were already struggling to try to heal his wounds. He was only able to make a Transition after the sinking of the Campania due to the wounds not being as severe as they were now. His eyes slowly went to close themselves, he had nothing to do and he definitely wouldn't dare try to run.

Voices rose from the other side of the door.

"...a full fledged Shinigami?"

Undertaker spoke proudly. "Of course, as legitimate as I. I only take the best for my experiments."

"Hm, using an immortal must be quite interesting. Can we see?"

"Oh, yes, yes, of course!"

The door swung open. Grell's eyes flew open and he lifted his head to see the newcomers.

Undertaker ushered whoever he was speaking to, Grell could only imagine what they looked like. The sound of pens scratching on paper reached his ears as Undertaker began,"Gentlemen, this is a Shinigami I had caught two months ago. He was snooping around my shop, thought I would kill him but curiosity overcame me and I simply had to let him live."

"So what did you do?"

"As immortals, we are not inflicted with the ailments humans are but we do, however, need sleep to recuperate and, as our livelihood, we need our blood."

A sharp nail went to his stomach.

Undertaker gave a warm chuckle,"This one will be done in phases. The first phase is starvation. When I captured him, I had to do so by ripping his torso open so that he may be immobilized. He lost quite a lot of blood and I managed to puncture his stomach, not intended to though. I tried to fix it as best I could but when he ran off, he reopened his wound and his stomach floated out in the Thames.

"I decided that the stomach had to go."

"Quite ghastly. How long has he gone without food?"

Grell's head began to spun. He could vomit if he wanted to, but there was nothing to produce the acid for it.

_Oh god..._

"Three months, no loss of weight save for the removal of the organ but his skin is paling."

Their conversation went on as though they were speaking of the weather. At times the guests would get demanding for knowledge, Undertaker would inform them as a tour guide would to a piece in a museum. Words flowed in and out of Grell's ears as he incessantly chewed through the cloth that Undertaker had used to gag him with.

He had torn through it and manged to tear a hole through it. When he had done so, he heard the sound of a door slamming shut. The blindfold was undone, blinding Grell's eyes with a pouring light.

He squinted as he felt cold leather straps around his wrists and ankles. He didn't bother to struggle, he knew that Undertaker would punish him if he bothered to escape.

"Eh...?" He asked, throat dried from being parched.

"Just security. I need to sleep, I'd rather not spend every hour wondering what else you're going to burn down, you little arsonist." Undertaker gave him a smile, a rather eerie smile. He leaned too close for comfort, Grell could see those fine, white hairs upon his brow. "Perhaps a goodnight kiss?"

Undertaker had little knowledge that the cloth had been shredded apart.

Grell's lips twitched but he was met by a pair of chapped ones against his own. He took this instant to bear his teeth to lash out, it was quick but a well-placed bite. He lunged his head upwards towards Undertaker and opened his mouth wide as though he were a beast of prey. His sharp pearls took to Undertaker's bottom lip, instantly clamping upon it and tearing away at the flesh.

A yelp from Undertaker encouraged Grell to go deeper, finally ripping it away, causing blood to spew profusely from the newly inflicted wound. Grell held to the chunk of flesh in his mouth as Undertaker brought one hand up to cover his bleeding mouth. Another hand curled into a fist and took a blow at Grell's head, causing him to see stars and hear a feint ringing.

He saw the silver form of Undertaker staggering around in the room; he crashed into a shelf, causing a bottle or so to fall and shatter to the ground. Undertaker let out a series of painful groans and curses as he manged to bring him to the door. Soon enough, the door opened and then slammed shut, leaving Grell alone.

The piece of Undertaker's mouth still resided in his own. Grell felt starved, in fact, he was starved. He had no stomach to take in food...but he needed the feeling of something at the least. The blood...it was so warm, so metallic, so sweet. It opened up a craving in his mind. His tongue prodded at the flesh, it was like raw meat, well, it was indeed raw meat.

Cautiously he chewed at it, finding the pudgy piece to be soft with a smooth texture.

When he felt he had done enough, he swallowed. Skin, flesh, blood, everything, even a piece of the gag.

Despite being only a bite worth of a meal, he felt satisfied.

His tongue flickered out to lick the blood that had dripped onto the corner of his mouth, taking in that suddenly addictive taste. A slight smile slid upon his pale feature.

_I suppose I can take a part of him as well._

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